


your eyes they rob me blind

by leonshardt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, implied gabriel/jack, implied gabriel/jesse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonshardt/pseuds/leonshardt
Summary: Jack sits back then, the sudden coolness between them shocking. “Jesus, I almost shot you.” He’s breathing hard. “The hell were you doing on that train.” He almost sounds weary, like he’s still the commander, berating an agent over a botched mission. But when McCree looks up, he’s smiling. Truth be told, McCree hadn’t expected to see him there on the train, either. But hunting the same dead man tends to draw people together. Funny how that works.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this diverges from canon at several points, like 1) the train hopper comic, and 2) the abo stuff. and stuff. you know.

Jack runs hotter than most humans. The ex-commander is barely sweating, but his chest _burns_ under McCree’s palms, like an overworked furnace. Could be the SEP in him. Could be how he just is, in times like these. McCree slots this information somewhere in the back of his mind as Jack settles into his lap, tugging off his shirt in the same motion.

McCree doesn’t bother to disguise his stare. Jack’s torso is littered with scars, some newer than others. Burn marks, recent. A large bruise settling over the side of his ribs, a dark cloud in the pale expanse of sky of Jack’s skin. That last one is arguably McCree’s fault, from the train incident earlier. He reaches out to touch, tentative.

But Jack doesn’t seem to mind. His hands wander over McCree’s waistband, hooking into his belt, dipping lower. Leaving trails of fire with his fingers. McCree lets out a shaky breath when Jack frees his cock from his underwear; he’s already hard, leaking into his fist. Jack gives his length a few lazy pumps, watching McCree’s face carefully, like he’s trying to pin him down into something smaller, something more easily understood. McCree is caught between the instinct to buck up into his hand and to shrink under his gaze, under those sharp, judging eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s gone bright red in the face. Humiliating. He doesn’t need Jack to look at him like that, like he’s seeing someone else.

“You haven’t done this in a while, have you?” Jack murmurs. He’s close enough and at an angle where McCree has to tilt his head back to look at him.

McCree shakes his head, slow. “No. Not since, uh. Since...” He let’s the sentence trail off. The words catch in his throat, like he’s choking on smoke.

Jack snorts, though not unkindly. “You know what your problem is?” he says, shifting his grip. “Your problem is that you’re too damn loyal. Hell, I used to be the same way. Could you even do this kind of stuff without getting his permission first?”

It shouldn’t sound sneering, bitter, but it does. This is hitting a little too close to home for both of them. But, they were never home to each other.

“Back then?” McCree retorts. “Nah. I fucked who he told me to fuck.” It comes out flatter and than he intended. He thought maybe Jack would be taken aback by the harshness of his words, but the other man doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Back then,” Jack says. “Not anymore. So what, you’re using your newfound freedom to go train hopping on crime scenes? Throwing in with vigilantes?” Jack sits back then, the sudden coolness between them shocking. “Jesus, I almost shot you.” He’s breathing hard. “The hell were you doing on that train.” He almost sounds weary, like he’s still the commander, berating an agent over a botched mission. But when McCree looks up, he’s smiling.

Truth be told, McCree hadn’t expected to see him there on the train, either. But hunting the same dead man tends to draw people together. Funny how that works.

McCree furrows his brows. “We ain’t _throwing in_ together,” he says.

Jack just slants him a flat look. “Isn’t that what you call this?”

Before McCree can answer, Jack grinds down on him, rough and without warning, and McCree’s next words are lost in a choked off moan. He reaches out to hold Jack’s thighs, to steady him, and all of a sudden he’s aware of how _slick_ Jack is. It coats the insides of his thighs: a warm, musky scent. Distinctly omega. It would smell even sharper if McCree wasn’t a beta, but it’s strong enough anyway when Jack’s already so wet, open, pliant—he must have been like this for a while. Days, even. It occurs to McCree that Jack might have fingered himself before coming here, and the thought causes him to flush even deeper. Jack just looks down at him, fire in his hands, fire in his blue eyes.

McCree grins, crooked. “Still got time to drop me dead, loverboy,” he says. Jack makes an impatient, dismissive sound, shifting his hips to line up his entrance with McCree’s cock.

“Shut up, McCree,” he says, and slowly, slowly, sinks down.

McCree gasps, mouth falling open wordlessly. The heat envelops him. Jack’s weight crushes him down at the same time he strains up, chasing friction.

Distantly he knows they shouldn’t be doing this, that he should have stopped Jack before they got this far. Should have kicked him right back out the window he’d climbed in through—the hotel room’s on the _fourth floor_ , for fucks sake, how did he even know where McCree was holed up?

McCree slides his hands down to settle on Jack’s hips, pulling him down the same moment he drives upward, burying himself into Jack’s unforgiving heat. Jack pants, flashing his teeth, a perfect slice of white. He’s not stopping now. Neither of them are.

“That’s it,” Jack breathes, “come on, come on, just like that.” McCree chokes on something like a moan, or maybe a sob, but Jack shushes him, pressing the rough pads of his fingers against McCree’s mouth, tiny embers scorching his lips.

Jack’s also got a thing for scenting, apparently, because he’s nuzzling down McCree’s neck, biting under his jaw, licking long stripes over his pulse point. He can feel it: the jackhammer race of McCree’s heart. McCree growls, low and throaty, chasing whatever contact he can reach. He leans in further, until Jack’s stubble is rasping against his cheek. The scenting behavior is unusual; mated pairs don’t usually scent with people outside their bond. They shouldn’t be doing this.

They shouldn’t be doing this. Jack was Gabriel’s.

But Gabriel was McCree’s, too. Once.

And Jack’s scent will stay on him for days, the ghost of his searing touch lingering for even longer, like an unseen brand.

Jack gets his fingers into McCree’s hair, pulling as gently as he’ll allow. It’s not gentle at all. Jack tugs as he rolls his hips down, forcing McCree’s head back as he fucks himself open on his cock. The sounds are wet, obscene. Jack’s cockhead slides against McCree’s abdomen with every movement, dribbling pre-come over his skin, and McCree dips his chin toward it, straining as far as he can manage with Jack’s hand tangled in his hair, gasping, tongue lolling out, desperation and arousal etched into every line of his face. He wants to take Jack’s cock into his mouth, suck him hard until the other man is whimpering, begging for it. He wants to—god, he doesn’t even know, he wants to make Jack shatter, make him lose control, take him apart like he’s taking McCree apart. He’s mad with arousal, almost feral with it.

And Jack is still far too calm. He’s riding McCree hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, and McCree has to bite his lip to stop from finishing right there. “Ah—slow down, darl’—” he gasps, clawing at the sheets underneath him, and Jack’s hips stutter for a moment, slowing down only a fraction. The older man barks out a laugh, humorless, as McCree writhes beneath him.

“Here,” Jack says, “come here.” He grabs McCree’s wrists, guiding his hands underneath him to his entrance, to where he and McCree are joined together. It’s an insistent demand: _touch me._ McCree swallows, and starts to move. Jack may not be a commander anymore, but that doesn’t mean McCree isn’t still taking orders. He lets his hands drift over sweat-slick skin, feeling with his fingers the place where his cock is sliding in and out of Jack’s body, that slow, tight stretch.

Carefully, McCree works a finger in alongside his cock, the extra girth filling Jack just that much further.

“Fuck,” Jack says, sounding strung-out and wrecked. God, he looks good like this, pupils blown, hair a mess. Panting as he bounces in McCree’s lap. “Fuck, more, gimme more—”

And McCree obliges. He doesn’t have a knot, can’t stuff Jack as full as he’s demanding with just his cock, but McCree is nothing if not resourceful. He improvises.

Jack’s eyes glaze over when McCree slips in a second finger, but he doesn’t let up. It feels _incredible_ —the tight clench of Jack’s hole, made even more intense with the added friction, the extra stretch. McCree rests his other hand, the metal one, on Jack’s hip, rubbing idly with his thumb. The metal arm doesn’t have great sensory feedback, but McCree imagines Jack’s impossible heat spreading up the length of his prosthetic, seeping through to the rest of his body. Blooming like ink in water.

Jack’s clenching his teeth now, like he’s trying to suppress the little involuntary noises escaping him every time McCree curls his fingers just right inside him. His thighs tremble on either side of McCree, shaking from the pleasure overload. McCree could stare at him like this for ages—it’s at this moment he thinks: _this is what I wanted_. Jack Morrison, coming undone.

It only takes a few more hard thrusts, a rough twist of McCree’s fingers, before Jack’s coming into that narrow, burning space between them. The pace slows. Jack lets out a sigh and sags into McCree’s chest, breathless and oversensitized.

“I got you darlin', I got you,” McCree mutters, holding Jack through the aftershocks. “That’s it. You’re doin’ good.”

Jack buries his face into McCree’s neck. “God, shut up,” he says, voice muffled against skin. Jack’s gripping McCree’s shoulders tight enough to bruise, but he isn’t moving anymore, just holding on, so after a while McCree starts to rock his hips upward, chasing his own release. His muscles shake from the exertion; he’s not a supersoldier like Jack or Gabriel, he doesn’t have the same ridiculous stamina. So it’s almost a relief when McCree finally comes, biting down on the long, drawn-out moan that escapes him.

Jack is still and quiet for a heartbeat, but then he rolls away to stretch out on the other side of the bed, away from the sticky damp mess they’ve made. Taking his fire with him, leaving McCree cold. McCree stares at the ceiling, tries to give Jack some privacy as he pulls on his pants.

There’s a dip in the mattress when Jack returns, and McCree turns to look at him. There’s no hint of the man he was just a moment ago, gasping and moaning above him. It’s just Jack now. Just the two of them, both ex-soldiers, mirrored in their damage.

McCree clears his throat. “You gonna leave through the window now?” he says, only half joking.

Jack snorts. “Not yet.” The side of his mouth twists up. “I got some questions for you, cowboy.” It sounds stiff. Like he doesn’t want to bring it up.

McCree sighs. Of course. Jack’s gotten too used to the lone wolf persona, clinging to his isolation like a last refuge. He doesn’t like asking for help, doesn’t like admitting he needs it.

“I don’t reckon I know anything about him that you haven’t already figured out yourself,” McCree says. Jack’s eyes narrow, and McCree meets his gaze, standing his ground. _I ain’t lying._ He’s not lying, but he’s smart enough to know he doesn’t have the whole story, either. There will be no confessions tonight.

Jack grunts. “Alright,” he says, after a moment. “We’ll talk tomorrow. No point in getting into it now.”

Jack rolls over before McCree can say anything, kicking the soiled sheets away from his half of the bed over to McCree’s side. Selfish ass. But McCree can’t bring himself to complain. He shifts to his side so his back is facing Jack, but now he’s much too aware of the position of their bodies, the call of a faint sting of memory. Absurd. He used to sleep like this on missions with Gabriel, with his back against someone he trusted. It was merely tactical, the most efficient arrangement. No room for sentiment, in times like these.

It feels strange, to be thinking of that now.

The air conditioning in the room isn’t strong enough. McCree is sweating through the sheets. He closes his eyes anyway, focusing on the deep, even cadence of Jack’s breathing behind him. Jack probably won’t fall asleep until after McCree does; he’s too paranoid, always hiding his vulnerabilities like some last desperate measure. So McCree will just have to try to fall asleep first.

He’ll wake up the next day, anyway, and they will carry on.

 


End file.
